#facsimile objects

[gregdotorg]

The Beyeler Foundation in Basel is a fundraising edition powerhouse. Just in time for Art Basel they've announced two Wade Guyton editions, full-scale inkjet prints of paintings which are on view in the gallery atm. The paintings, ofc, are also inkjet prints.

images: installation views of wade guyton paintings [top] and prints [above] at the fondation beyeler in basel.

[kismetconstellations]

Why are K/L shippers like this?

Is Shiro honestly so intimidating to them that they have to bash him (and obviously Allura, as well. Can't bash Shiro without the obligatory tandem Allura bashing)?

[wormchaser]

today when left alone with my thoughts i kept coming back to "i'd almost believe he was a tortured genius if he wasn't so fucking idiotic about it". paraphrasing but yeah ................

[girl-dot-tzt]

If you haven't the whimsy to call sex "slip n' sliding" we shan't be doing any slipping or sliding.

Surprise story abt me:

This underwear is part of the collection of actions and objects that cracked my egg and saved my life by proxy! I got them after a hookup with a cute trans girl and her boyfriend, they refused to use anything other than she her pronouns with me. It was one of the first times it felt like someone saw me, at the time I didn't know how to act. But she gave me a bunch of underwear, and I still have them to this day. I didn't like wearing women's underwear before because they never felt comfortable due to my anatomy, but these like... fit.

If you're reading this and thinking about transitioning and starting hrt... please do, things get better I promise. I know it's scary, but living as you is better than living as the facsimile of you that you constructed for other people's comfort.

I'm thinking I'll post a couple more images from this collection in the future if y'all think you'd be interested 🤔

[kaija-rayne-author]

I need to look to see if there's 'veilguard positive' tags I can block because OMFG. I feel so fucking gaslit every time I see a positive post claiming the crafting was good, the writing was good, the art was good, because, no, objectively, they were not. (I say that as an author, editor, diversity consultant, and media critic, not just a consumer.)

Every writer who worked on VG has either resigned or been laid off. The creative director has been demoted to a much lower position at a different EA company, Busche 'resigned' which in corporate speak means she was probably asked to. The sales numbers are so abysmal they've essentially declared DA a dead IP. (These would be business signals that no, it wasn’t good. Why? Good games sell well. Usually quickly. Especially in AAA markets.)

IF VG had been a good game, those people would still have jobs, and Bioware would be celebrating. Because that's how sales and business works.

The art assets are reused everywhere, the writing is absolutely shite, the racism isn't a bug, it's a feature, the characters are cardboard cut outs (which is an upgrade from paper dolls but not by much), the therapy speak is utterly nauseating, I want to punch Rook regularly, there is so little role playing potential in a supposed role playing game that it's laughable, the plot is honestly mind-bogglingly bad, they bastardized beloved characters so they were barely recognizable facsimiles of themselves, and they shat on the Lore so badly.

Deep breath. When we talk about media, we need to consider things like genre (dragon age is supposed to be dark fantasy, not cozy the world is disnified perfect sim.) Cozy games are great! I love several. Dragon Age was not and never should've tried to be a cozy therapy sim. We need to consider things like 'what did previous entries in the series look and feel like', and we need to stick to that. Some changes are expected and encouraged because things evolve, people leave, and new blood is brought in. Technology improves. What we can't do if we want to retain the committed fans is pull a complete 180 and make something that seems like the vast majority of older DA fans hate with a bloody passion.

It's shit. All of it. Veilguard was not, objectively, a good game. No part of it was objectively good (except perhaps Emmrich's romance, which still feels about 80% complete).

And you know what? It's perfectly fine if you like something shitty. Hell, I utterly love b and c rate fantasy cheese movies. I love Van Helsing for example. And I know it's not good. I just don't care.

But I never slog on in posts trying to convince people it was actually objectively good, because objectively it most certainly is not.

Aiya, just accept that you loved a not great thing. Not everything we consume has to be objectively good for us to love it.

Veilguard might’ve been fine as a mid-rate on quality hack n'slash generic fantasy adventure game.

It is not even remotely an objectively good dragon age game. It failed, spectacularly, on every front.

UGH.

People bitch and moan about people who hated it being awful. But at least most of us use the critical tags so you don't have to read it.

Nah, you know who I've seen being awful the most? The positive crowd who loved it. Have the same decency we have and tag your damned posts as Veilguard positive. So the people who didn't like it don't have to read your stuff either.

[charliemwrites]

Mean Simon Part 4

Content: Panic Attack (Non-Descriptive), Hurt/Comfort, Gaslighting/Manipulation

please be safe and careful 💕

Simon’s got a bit of a puzzle on his hands. More accurately, you’re a puzzle that’s not in his hands. And getting you there, of your own free will, is only part of it.

Sure, he could just grab you or order you. You would be helpless to his will either way. It would be simple and easy, but it wouldn’t be satisfying. Not as much as coaxing you into the trap by your own volition, anyway.

Once you were just a shy thing, now you’re downright skittish. Quick to bend the knee and bow your head, but you don’t relish in doing so. Johnny has been nothing but adoring and sweet to you, yet Simon notices you still resist flinching and tensing on contact. Never mind if Simon himself were to attempt the same, you’d work yourself into hysteria over a pat to the shoulder. Seducing you would be its own challenge - but that leaves the contradictory matter of training you.

You would be so good. He knows it.

You’re quick to learn, eager to please. But it comes from a place of fear and distrust. The former has its place, the latter its natural offspring - but neither suits Simon’s purpose in this instance. Punishment and discipline would only serve to reinforce the trenches in your mind. To stay quiet and unseen, to avoid Simon at all costs and tolerate Johnny out of self-preservation. That neither of them can be trusted, are not objects for your affection or desire. Only a facsimile with a pretty face, that makes pretty noises, and soothes Johnny with pretty touches. Nothing real; nothing either of them can actually sink their teeth into.

And so there lies the puzzle. He needs (wants) to train you into the sweet doll he knows you can be, but he has to do it in a way fundamentally different to his instinct - or he risks breaking you entirely.

Luckily, he’s a patient man. Your behavior has been acceptable so far with the barest monitoring. He has time to develop a strategy.

“Um… excuse me, Mister?” you soft voice calls.

He grunts, turning his eyes to you. You shift, fingers twisting together tightly.

“I can’t, um… so there’s a light out? In the kitchen?”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

“And I don’t know where the bulbs are,” you finish.

He tilts his head. “You didn’t go looking?”

You shake out your hands a bit, shifting. “I didn’t know if I, um, if I should? Snooping, and all…”

Simon tries to recall if he’s ever implied that you shouldn’t go through the house. He knows he explicitly warned you not to go in his bedroom and the garage. But you’ve inferred it somehow, likely from those first few months after he got you for Johnny - when he would have had some objection to you treating the house as if it were your own.

You’re well past that by now, though. Spend more time here than either of them, cleaning and cooking and sleeping. In fact, he’s surprised you haven’t stumbled across the bulbs sooner.

“Hall closet by my room.”

You hesitate for another moment. “And is there, um… a step stool anywhere…?”

He blinks. “No.”

“Oh. Uhh…” you jolt a bit. “Oh! I’ll just use a dining chair. Thank you! Um, sir.”

You dart away before he can reply. That’s going to be the first bad habit he breaks, he decides.

For lack of sating himself with you, Johnny’s been especially needy. Simon accounted for this, of course, and despite it being a punishment, he’s not so cruel as to leave Johnny hanging. It’s meant to be a learning experience too.

So Johnny is still allowed to cuddle with you (to some extent) and exchange kisses (in moderation) while Simon takes the edge off the ever-burning inferno that is his libido. Sniper he may be, Simon might have miscalculated regardless. He’s already touched-out for the day.

You’re in the kitchen, prepping for a nicer dinner at Simon’s request before their next deployment. It’ll take a couple hours to cook, so you’re assembling everything early. Or at least trying to - because Johnny will not leave you the fuck alone.

He’s underfoot, making a nuisance of himself. Kissing at your neck and face, wrapping himself around you while you bustle about, stealing ingredients off of cutting boards, talking in your ear nonstop. Most days you wouldn’t mind - or would appear that way, at least. But today is not most days.

Simon is sitting on a stool on the other side of the counter when you reach capacity.

With Johnny still plastered to your back, you try to reach for something (for the umpteenth time) and trip over his feet. You knock over an open carton of stock, splattering translucent brown all over the floors, counters, cabinets, and yourselves.

“Fuck,” you cry, “Johnny.”

Your voice breaks on his name. Johnny freezes. Simon can see fault lines in every inch of your stiff body. How carefully you manage each movement as you disentangle yourself from Johnny and usher him away from the worst of the mess. You’re about to fall apart.

“Och, I’m sorry, hen. Lemme help—“

“It’s alright,” you interrupt, chin low as you pivot, snagging the paper towels off the counter. “I’ve got it. Just… stay there.”

Johnny opens his mouth to protest, about to help anyway, but Simon tuts in disapproval.

The kitchen is smothered in an awful silence as you clean, Johnny growing more shame-faced with each rip of the towel roll.

Unobstructed, you manage to clean up in only a couple of minutes, making an extra pass with a damp towel to wipe up any residue. When you’re finished, you wet another and offer it to Johnny to wipe off. Then do the same for yourself. Always, you keep your face obscured or hidden, body oriented away, tight and rigid.

When you spin to gather up the dirty towels, Simon sees how your eyes glimmer. You remember he’s there too at the same time.

“Sir, I’m so sorry. I d-don’t, um…” you have to take a breath to gather your voice. “There’s not enough for dinner now.”

Simon considers that for a beat.

“Johnny’ll run out ‘n get more.”

You swallow thickly. “Okay. I’m sorry, sir.”

“‘S not your fault. Kitchen only needed one cook, yeah?”

You make a noise that, if he was hard of hearing and listening through earmuffs, could almost be agreement.

“I-I’m gonna go wash off…” you rub your hands together nervously. “If that’s alright.”

“G’on.”

You’re gone in an instant. Simon can already hear you sniffling. He stands.

Johnny turns huge, pathetic eyes on him.

“‘M sorry, Si. Really, I didn’t mean to—“

“But you did,” Simon interrupts sharply. “Because you were being a rude little shit and playing too rough.”

Johnny gulps, looks a bit misty-eyed himself. Simon sighs and scrubs an exasperated hand through his mohawk.

“Go get the stock,” he orders, milder. “And an extra treat for the sweetie. Something actually for her. Understood?”

Johnny always does better with clear instructions. He perks up at being given a mission - and an avenue for making things up to you. He hurries off with a pep in his step.

Simon waits until the door is shut before seeking you out. You’re in the bathroom, as you said you would be. He can hear you muffling cries behind the door.

He taps his knuckles twice against the wood. It goes dead silent.

“Jus’ me,” he calls.

There’s a quick splash of water, the flutter of fabric, and then you crack the door open. Your face is cry-flushed, eyes red-rimmed and still glossy. You can’t look past his chest, mouth curved down.

“I-I’m really sorry about the-the mess, and dinner, and…”

“Stop apologizing,” he says, gentling his voice to take the edge off the command. “If there was something to be sorry for, you’d know.”

You swipe quickly at a tear that squeezes out. He tsks softly.

“Bit strung out today, eh?”

“Just… didn’t sleep well, is all,” you answer. “And I didn’t get a chance to nap.”

Right, he’s noted that, in the back of his mind. That you spend small portions of the day sleeping. Usually an hour or two at a time. But Johnny’s been so high maintenance today that you’ve hardly had a moment of peace.

“Cranky? Is that it?” he asks.

You look more miserable. “Just tired,” you answer.

He hums. Willing to bet it’s more than just a bad night of sleep. Poor thing.

“Sor - I mean… I know I’m not supposed to…” you rub at your eyes, drooping.

He tilts his head. “Not s’posed to what?”

“Cry or-or be annoying or…”

He coos. “You’ve got all these rules for yourself, don’t you?”

You sniffle again, hugging yourself tightly as you shrug.

The hunter in Simon perks. There.

“Look’it.” He takes your chin between thumb and forefinger, guiding your gaze up to his.

You blink slowly, heavily, wet lashes sticking together.

“What sort of terrible world have you built up in your mind, hm?” he soothes. “Never told you not to do any of that, did I?”

You blink, confused and upset.

“N-no, I guess… not.”

“No,” he confirms. “You’re spun up so tight you’re starting to fray, little one.”

You shudder, swaying into him a bit. He used the movement to slide his hand to your jaw, massaging his thumb into the tight muscle by your ear.

“From now on, you only follow the rules I give you, yeah?” he says, low and quiet. “Dunno why you think I’m so mean. I won’t punish you if you don’t know better.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if trying to resist the hypnotic lull of letting someone else think for you. But you still lean into his palm.

“How’s this,” he offers, “if you’re ever unsure, you ask me. Wont get mad at you for asking. Yeah?”

And finally, that wire twisted up between your shoulder blades loosens.

“Yes, sir.”

Johnny comes home with a chocolate cupcake. Simon approves it before sending him to you, decompressing on the couch with a cuppa.

You blink as Johnny drops heavily to his knees, placing the packaged cupcake in your hand.

“Lass, I’m sorry for bein’ so rough,” he begins, bowing his forehead to your knees. “Dinnae mean to, but I still upset ye, interrupted dinner when ye were workin’ so hard.” He tilts his face up, hitting you with the full force of his apologetic blue eyes. “Forgive me?”

You mouth parts, genuine shock washing over your features. “Y-yeah, Johnny, of course. I know you didn’t mean to. I was just having a bad day.”

But that doesn’t mollify him.

“I couldnae tell. You were just… goin’ on as usual.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

You set your tea aside to place your hand over his, trying to reassure him. But Simon knows his pup and you’ve just unwittingly put a thorn in his paw.

“I’ll get back to dinner now.” You lean in, drop a kiss to Johnny’s furrowed brow. “Thank you for apologizing. And the cupcake.”

Johnny stands with you. “At least let me help proper this time?”

You smile, though it’s tinged with exhaustion. “Sure. C’mon.”

Simon takes his place at the counter again and keeps a careful eye on you both. Things are a lot smoother this time round. Johnny follows your quiet instructions, happy to be useful. You seem to settle with dinner plans back on track.

Once everything is set to slow cook, Simon herds you and Johnny back to the den.

“Pick a movie, lamb.”

You blink from the corner of the couch you’ve curled up in. “Me?”

“You.”

You seem so surprised that you just blurt out a title. Simon hums and queues it up while Johnny all but interrogates you for the plot. As the opening scenes flicker across the screen, you snuggle in further, even tugging a blanket off the back of the couch to bundle up on.

Johnny shoots you a longing look - you’re too engrossed in the movie - so Simon snags him by the back of the neck and tucks him into his side.

You fall asleep two-thirds of the way through, but Simon lets you. Likes watching you breathe, face soft and smooth. Can’t for the life of him even recall what’s on the telly.

That night, after a quiet (but peaceful) dinner, and everyone’s showers, Simon ushers Johnny to the room he usually shares with you. Hope flickers across the pup’s face, confusion and trepidation across yours.

“In the middle, Johnny,” Simon rumbles. “The little one by the window.”

You and Johnny comply, cuddling in. Simon takes the side closest to the door, grunting a bit when Johnny instantly clings on.

“Is this the new arrangement?” Johnny asks eagerly.

“Go to sleep,” Simon answers.

He grumbles, but settles in. On the other side of the bed, there’s a bit of shuffling. Then your voice whispering, “Good night.”

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Masterlist

[arctic-whatever]

I don’t think anyone talks about how incredibly lonely it can be sometimes to be alterhuman. Sure, there’s online spaces, meet-ups, forums and groups, but outside of that? You’re inevitably going to have at least one small period of your life where no-one around you feels the way you do and you have no idea why. Maybe you’re a child who’s never heard the words ‘therian’ or ‘otherkin’. Maybe you’re deep in the antikin community, lashing out at joy with hate and fear. Maybe there’s something else keeping you seperate.

Whatever the reason, that part of life is… almost unbearably isolated. You feel different, different in a way you can barely put words to. Different in a way you often see others institutionalised for in books and movies. Different in the way you hear your thoughts, speak your words and experience your feelings. And more often than not, you don’t know why.

Why you? Why were you chosen to shoulder the burden of being so different? What made any benevolent creator (or lack thereof) reach down and plant such joy in your heart, and such pain also?

Your hands are not your own as they grip foreign objects of an alien world; cutlery, pencils, jewellery. Are you even meant to have hands? Sometimes your fingers ache with the knowledge they were never meant to exist in any meaningful capacity. Your heart beats too fast, too slow, too… human.

Your friends and family don’t understand. They can’t. They’ve never felt the call of the camphor-laden breeze, never lost themselves to the wild, frenetic energy of the night. They’re human. Your spirit extends beyond yourself, in impossible limbs that they will never yearn for. Your soul will not be contained within this flesh prison, it never could be, all whilst theirs rests comfortably at home.

There’s no words for this feeling, not in any book, nor television show. There’s no representation except for in the monstrous. There’s no celebrity that openly talks about it. There’s no dictionary that explains it. You’re different, alone, and entirely certain that you are the only person on earth to be a facsimile of a person; not a person at all.

And then you find the therian community. And you realise they’d been there all along, hidden from the mainstream conversation, away from the late-night talk shows and trivia competition questions.

And you wonder, in what cruel world could such unbearable loneliness continue to be allowed to persist when the answer existed in the background all along? Who let your heart break over and over, just to reveal it broke for nothing so painful at all? Who let you scream hoarsely into the void, begging for answers, all while the answers sat so close by?

How could any of this be fair?

[centrally-unplanned]

I will add my voice to the chorus that chronological feed is at this point one of Tumblr's biggest selling points, because chronological is a default form of ownership. I can edit my feed to match exactly my expectations by following & unfollowing who I want, because chronology as a concept is completely scrutable to me. Algorithms are fine as everything is an algorithm; its the lack of comprehensibility and agency most platforms inflict on you that makes them so hostile to users who actively curate what they engage with.

I in fact think Tumblr would benefit from more feed options! I would absolutely enable deviations from the chronology based on the people I follow and the moods I am in - but they again would need to be under my control.

The discoverability problem is real, and I do in fact think that there should be better ways. I don't object to the "you may also like" in the corner for example. In reality Tumblr's search functions are the place to do this; they aren't as bad as many claim but they aren't great, they are exactly the choice-focused place to surface new blogs. Make that tool better and I will find others like me and give them a shot.

But. Another thing that makes tumblr great is the fact that it is 'community' based over 'content' based. I follow the people I follow, and they follow me, because we interacted with each other over time. It is a facsimile of actual socializing; you make a few comments on a post, you build up the courage for a reblog or two, you are discoursing, you tag them on a meme, now you are mutuals. Content creators are not community members - that is a hierarchical relationship, the 'lead' and the 'fan', and is defined by parasocial and weak connections. Tumblr can be more than one thing ofc, I follow some art blogs who never talk to their followers, that is a content-follow. But in the main I don't think most people want their community-based feed structure to be disrupted by attempts to content-itize it.

This is again one of Tumblr's strengths - every other site (besides partially Facebook) has pivoted to content-style models over community-style models due to inherent winner-take-all dynamics and greater monetization applications. But Tumblr cannot chase YouTube, it is going to lose, YouTube already exists. I don't see much of anything in that post that recognizes that, and that is imo a huge mistake.

[patchworkcuddlebug]

As The Moon Breaks

The witch looked down at her doll with concern clear in her eyes. It clutches its arm close to its chest, trying to keep itself stood at attention, before lowering its head into a bow.

"This one is very, very sorry, Miss." It mustered reverence despite the sobs. "This one was disrespectful of your property. This one will do everything in its power to never hurt itself again. Please punish-"

"Oh darling, you're hurt?" the witch's concern was palpable through her voice. She reached out to the arm that her doll was cradling. It offered no resistance, letting Miss examine it.

On the inside of its arm was a chunk missing from its porcelain, and a hairline fracture trailing up to its elbow joint. "Oh, Luna, you-"

"Sorry, this one's very very sorry Miss, it never meant to-" the doll tries to keep its stoic demeanour, something befitting of an object to be used, but it can't hid the apprehension bubbling to the surface.

"Luna, I promise there's nothing to worry about." The witch gently caressed the doll's hand in both of hers, soothingly rubbing her thumbs along its palm. It seemed to relax its clockwork, letting its shoulders fall. "Thank you so much for telling me you're hurt. Would you like to go to my workshop so I can fix you up?" The witch let flow from the softest smile she could muster.

Luna's voice caught in its throat, for only a moment. "Yes Miss, that would be very nice Miss." It speaks quickly, trying to be polite without annoying its witch, still clearly scared of losing that balance. "This one wants to be a good doll for you, Miss."

The witch stands from her kneel, the doll's hand still in hers. "You're the best doll I could ever ask for, dear."

The doll obediently follows, suppressing a whimper

. . . . .

In a moment of respite between chores, without stillness, Luna looks down at its arm. The kintsugi is thickest by the wrist, where the impact was, running thinner and thinner until the mend looked almost seamless. 

It remembers the grasp of its previous witch. The one who would barely swish her fingers to rend the throats of dolls who wasted time talking, annoying her as she was trying to work. "You are facsimiles of life, toys deluded into consciousness." She holds the broken doll up by its hear, crowd surrounding her. "If you ever forget what you are, or want for more, just think about how easily you can be replaced."

It remembers what Miss said, towering over it as it was helplessly sprawled out on the work bench. "Kintsugi uses gold because mistakes aren't something to be ashamed of." She holds the lost chunk it place, readying the brush. "If you ever start to feel ashamed, just think about how pretty the gold looks."

So Luna tried to quiet the voice of its old witch, still as loud as when it was with her. 

[quirkwizard]

Dr. Kuse Files: Cathleen Bate

Patient: Bates, Cathleen

Parent Quirks: Father-An Emitter that could make flowers rapidly grow by talking Mother-An Emitter that briefly empowers her body

Potential Names: Dictate, New Order, Command

Awakening Incident: Subject had told herself "Cathleen Bate, you're strong!", a phrase told to her by her father to make her feel better, when protecting another student from a bully.

Observations: The subject has the ability to manipulate objects she comes into contact with. Upon giving a verbal command and saying their name, the object will then act or react to the order given. In spite of the initial assumptions, the subject is not altering what she is applying the Quirk to. It is, in fact, an advanced form of manipulation. Not changing, but "commanding" it to act in a certain way. This is further reinforced by the fact that the Quirk is limited to the target's physical structure. It cannot exert any real control over the target to act. The target's mental and emotional faculties remain intact.

The subject could improve or deter already existing traits or features. This cannot impart any new features onto the target of the Quirk. When used on the subject, the subject attempted to command herself to fly. This did not happen. Not even a facsimile of flight. She could, however, improve her ability to jump higher. This implies that the ability relies on very specific wording the subject's commands. The wording seems more open with non-humans. Objects such as "book" rather than a specific name are a valid target of the Quirk. Surprisingly, this can be applied to non-tangible targets, such as the air. 

As impressive as it is, it has limitations. The subject could only apply to one order at any given time. This could be the Quirk's natural limit, but I doubt it. The subject requires a specific name in order to command the object. This is especially true of people. "Doctor" did not activate the Quirk. Yet things like "Dr. Kuse's Arm" seems to work just fine. This is likely a form of targeting for the Quirk. Such an extensive form of manipulation needs specifics in order to make it work. This seems to be equal parts how the user understands the target and how the target understands themselves. Further research will be required.

Recommendations: -Repeated visits are suggested. Until will can comprehend what exactly the deviated Quirk is capable of, any training or usage should be put on hold. -Extensive and specialized Quirk Counseling is recommended. The amount potential harm or abuse done by a child with this, accidental or otherwise, is staggering. -Keep any and all training to non-human targets. Clay would be the best thing with how malleable and disposal it is. With how much its shape changes, it could help figure out the wording limitation. -I'd highly suggest that the Quirk remain hidden from those outside the immediate family. A power like this could result in undue panic from her peers. For now, say that it's an encouragement based enhancer.

[gregdotorg]

Gerhard Richter BIRKENAU opened last month in the Polish village of Oświęcim. The permanent exhibition pavilion includes full-scale facsimile editions of Richter's 2014 Birkenau series of abstract paintings; reproductions of the photos of the Birkenau extermination camp taken by Jewish Sonderkommandos in 1944, which served as Richter's basis for his paintings; and facsimile editions of a 1991 series of Grey Mirror paintings. Which in press coverage so far just get dismissed as grey mirrors, though they are actually photo reproductions of glass mirror paintings, in face-mounted acrylic on aluminum.

By compelling visitors to see themselves in a mirror while surrounded by evidence and repetitions of a genocide, I think these are the most significant works in this show.

[s/o @csantdotinfo for the heads up on the Guardian's review]

[uwmspeccoll]

Manuscript Monday

Shown here are pages from our facsimile of one of the most popular texts of the Middle Ages, Speculum Humanae Salvationis (The Mirror of Human Salvation). The text was written to expound upon the medieval idea of Biblical typology, or the ways in which the Old Testament of the Christian Bible foreshadows its New Testament. This type of book is part of the genre of speculum literature, which was made to record encyclopedic knowledge of a subject within a single book. The popularity of the Speculum led to it being copied many times, and hundreds of copies in several languages remain extant today from the medieval period.

Our facsimile, published in 1973 by the Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt in Graz, Austria in an edition of 72 copies, is from a 14th-cenury Latin manuscript housed in the Benedictine Kremsmünster Abbey Library in Germany, and catalogued as Codex Cremifanensis 243. It is one of the oldest copies of the Speculum.

The pages of the Speculum hold three Old Testament stories corresponding to one New Testament story, along with an astonishing 192 illuminations. While its subject matter is Biblical, we can see the everyday objects and clothing worn in the 14th century, since Biblical characters were dressed in contemporaneous clothing and architecture in the background is from the same period. This gives us an interesting insight into 14th century medieval culture by showing us the objects and places that surrounded these people in everyday life. Throughout the illuminations, some of the faces are smudged out with black ink; this shows viewers that these are the villains in the stories, though I have to say that in most cases, (especially where our poor friend is being sawed in half) it is pretty obvious.

View more manuscript posts.

View more Manuscript Monday posts.

– Sarah S., Former Special Collections Graduate Intern

[liquid-bonhomme]

Let me tell you about the word "Bonhomme" in French.

"Bonhomme" is a hard word to describe because there is no real English equivalent.

It often gets translated to "puppet," "doll" or "toy," but it doesn't actually mean any of those things. Not specifically, anyway.

"Bonhomme" is an actual word for items and objects one may describe in English as "friend shaped." A "silly little guy."

A general term for things that is some sort of facsimile of a humanoid is likely (but not always) small, likely vaguely non-threatening.

It's hard to really fully pin down what counts as a bonhomme and what doesn't, but you know one when you see it.

Everything from a mannequin to a garden gnome is a bonhomme. An Elf on a Shelf is a bonhomme, the collectible figurine of a Warcraft elf on your shelf is not. Those wacky waving arm men are bonhommes, a bronze sculpture of a man waving his arms is not. Your dog is not a bonhomme, your dog's squeaky toys might be.

"Bonhomme" translated literally means, basically, "good boy." [God man, but, closer in connotation to good boy.]

The actual closest english equivalent to "bonhomme" is "homunculus."

. . . Which has wildly different connotations.

[lakesbian]

the thing about amy is that imo her dream life isn't a world where she can date victoria because they aren't sisters, but a world where she's actually the sister victoria thinks she is and new wave wants her to be. because that is a scenario where she'd Belong. and the happiest her life can get is when she gets to live out a facsimile of that fantasy of belonging. getting held up during a bank robbery blows, obviously, but 3.11 is--up until tattletale shows up--a good day for her, in terms of getting to feel like a real dallon.

she texts victoria for help, and victoria shows up guns-blazing, issues an awe-inspiring display of force for her, calls her "sis," and asks if she's okay. amy beams about that. victoria says that because taylor is holding a member of new wave hostage, the entire family & extended family will show up to help her--and amy isn't really a dallon in the same way victoria is, but it must be wonderful to feel included for a moment. to be united with victoria against a criminal instead of being an object of scrutiny. here, the criminal is bad and wrong, and victoria is good, and amy gets to be good with her.

victoria lords the protectorate's wealth over taylor by mentioning that they were at a country club eating mousse. (how desperate do someone's life circumstances have to be, compared to the dallons, for them to try robbing a bank?) amy follows suit, laughing and commenting "isn't the mousse good?" despite the knife to her neck. she calls taylor a terrorist. she threatens to hurt her, much like how victoria threatened to hurt the gang member she was brutalizing in her interlude. she threatens to make her fat, and while this isn't intentional writing because worm is deeply fatphobic, it's fascinating to watch amy threaten taylor with making her non-normative/traditionally unattractive right after calling her a terrorist and mocking her using the wealth she's associated with.

it must be a painful reminder that the fantasy isn't real, to hear victoria talking casually about taking amy on a double date with a boy, and to hear her telling tattletale that new wave has no secrets--but at least amy can imagine for a moment that she lives in a world where she and victoria are the ideal sisters victoria thinks they are, close enough to go on double dates and share every secret. it's not real, but it's the closest she can get.

and then tattletale reminds her that she doesn't belong, that what's wrong with her is--according to what she has implicitly learned from the dallons--inherited. that she's tied to the same kind of person she just called a terrorist. (in the dallon's world of perfect, all-american, all-white, upper-middle-class cop families, criminals aren't a result of varying circumstance, they're a kind of person, and a kind of person that is always evil. a kind of person amy is, according to the world of the dallons, tainted by.)

victoria doesn't get out injury-free either, of course. aside from the unnerving reminder that her sister doesn't feel like she belongs--why might that be?--it's been impressed upon her that she has to be the dallon's perfect & untouchable golden girl, and she likes to pretend that she really is. but as tattletale says when she sees through victoria's disguise and takes her down, she's not invincible. her sister doesn't belong, and she's not invincible. that one is gonna stew in both of their minds for a while.

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Do you think Doflamingo ever loved or genuinely cared about his "family"?

The story makes it pretty clear that Doflamingo never really got to learn what "love" is or what it can possibly mean. He learned very early on to see other human beings as objects which he has the right to use and abuse, and almost everything he does is childish rage and retaliation at having his toys and privileges taken away from him, at being asked to see and treat people as people.

And that extends to his family, biological and "found," whom he will treat with a facsimile of affection right up until the moment they cease to be useful tools for him. His parents when they stop providing him access to toys and slaves, Rosinante when he ruins his plan for the Ope Ope no Mi, and everyone in Dressrosa when he needs to tidy up loose ends.

Who knows how he might have turned out if he'd grown up somewhere where you can't treat people as things, impossible to say, but as a character in One Piece his function is to express the naked horror of the World Noble worldview - hence how his power is puppet strings, hence how he operates a country where he turns people into toys for him to play with, etc. This is also why I call him childish: for all his mafia boss pretensions, everything he does is expressed in childish entitlement to other people's bodies.

Doflamingo is the ethos of the Celestial Dragons manifested into a person. That is why he is evil.

[vintagelasvegas]

Sahara West Library and Fine Arts Museum (1996), Las Vegas, Nevada, by Mayer, Scherer & Rockcastle. Photo by Jeff Green.

Excerpt from:

Mayer, Scherer & Rockcastle’s Sahara West Library and Fine Arts Museum is a world apart from the Las Vegas Strip.

Karan Slein. Architectural Record, 3/97.

While a new crop of attention-grabbing hotels and casinos that feature mock volcanic eruptions, roller-coaster rides, and facsimiles of Egyptian pyramids and the Manhattan skyline dominate tourist images of Las Vegas, another kind of architecture is emerging behind the scenes, where people live. It's a parallel universe of müre soft-spoken civic mindedness.

To respond to the region's tremendous population growth the city launched an ambitious program to enlarge its fledgling library system in the early 1970s. The first step of the initiative was the installation of a new director, Charles Hunsberger, who brought with him the lessons of his previous post in Bloomington, Ind., about 25 miles from Indiana's architecturally rich town of Columbus. It's in Columbus that he "got interested in libraries and architecture and in putting them together," he recalls.

Hunsberger's masterplan for Las Vegas called for merging the one existing city library and one existing county library into a single system, the Las Vegas/Clark County library district (LVCCLD). The two buildings would be gradually supplemented by a series of architecturally distinct satellite facilities that would serve as the focus for the communities sprouting up around them. In addition to providing traditional library services-book lending and research-many of these facilities would also provide a cultural component by including exhibition or performance space.

Now numbering 23 branches, today the LVCCLD is much as Hunsberger planned it would be. Hunsberger, however, has left the scene, having quit his job in ’93, a year prior to his scheduled retirement, amid mounting backlash to his agenda.

While the expanded role of the system was praised by other library districts around the country as visionary, in recent years the hybrid of library and museum caused an uproar in the local community for losing sight of its primary objective. "I did what I planned to do," responds Hunsberger to allegations surrounding his premature departure.

With over $120 million of bond-allocated money spent on its facilities in an 11-year period, what is clear is that city coffers are now empty for libraries. The 23rd branch, the Sahara West Library and Fine Arts Museum, by Meyer, Scherer & Rockcastle, which replaced a small and successful storefront operation when it opened to the public in January, is the last of its generation. Current library district director Darrell Batson concurs: "This is it."

Garth Rockcastle, AIA, of Minneapolis-based Meyer, Scherer & Rockcastle (MS&R), the project's design architect, suppressed the split personality of the program on the exterior. Rather than make the building the amalgam of two distinct functions and parts, he and MS&R library specialist Jeff Scherer, AIA, conceived a 122,000-sq-ft whole that responds to site conditions such as views of downtown to the east and mountains to the west with an attempt to mitigate the effects of the harsh Nevada climate.